.-• But the Cure continued to shake his head. 'Next year, if you are attentive in class, we will then consider your First Communion.5 §2 May came in, the month of our Blessed Lady, the month of the children's approach to the altar. The Cure Martel was puckering his brow and fidgeting his feet as he sat in his study. He was struggling to forget a psychological treatise and to concentrate instead upon his address to the parents of youthful communicants — it would shortly appear in the Parish Journal: cSoyez~en felicites mes chers parents cretiens, car vous avez donne a vos chers petits enfants le privilege supreme, le privilege sublime, de s'agenouiller aux pieds de leur tres-cher Jesus . . . ' He sighed; every other word seemed to be: *cher3; he was no good at all at this sort of writing. Then he tried to enliven his brain with snuff, sneezed twice, wiped his eyes, blew his long-suffering nose and stained a new handkerchief brown in the process. Meanwhile, an air of suppressed excitement was very apparent in many a household: little girls with discreet but rather bright eyes; little boys look- sheepish, good and embarrassed; mothers with expressions which were usually reserved for occasions such as funerals or weddings; fathers with a kind of high pride on their brows, as who should say: 'See what we have done for the Lord by creating such handsome and excellent children!' Oh, yes, it was very apparent indeed, this air of suppressed but undoubted excitement. May the first. Marie getting out Christophers fine clothes and tweaking the buttons — she mistrusts shop sewing — then flicking a speck off the breeches with 210